Shadow of Treason

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Ritter rolled up the blueprints and slid them back into the cane, considering how easy it would be to simply steal them and be done with it. It would meet his immediate goal, to be sure— but he would be like the man who slaughtered the goose that laid the golden egg. It would jeopardize his contact on the inside and ruin any opportunity for future assignments.

  No, it was better to follow this course of action the following day, or maybe two. Not that he would mind staying around longer. Although his interaction with Monica and her family provided little information of use to his Fatherland, it was enjoyable nonetheless. Just as he knew he needed to be patient in stealing the plans, so too he needed to use his time to woo the Americans.

  Who knew what benefit they, too, could provide to him in the future?

  The dirt road leading to the tunnel compound was dark, and from his place in the bushes Walt watched the Moors travel in small groups of two or three, coming back from their shift underground. After talking to more people from town, passing around a few more coins and a little drink, he discovered that the Moors worked in the mines for only a few weeks at a time. Most had come to Spain, after all, for the wages battle brought them and the booty they received upon capturing a town.

  Walt wondered how many more would exit the mines. He then reconsidered his plan, trying to figure out if he could pull off capturing two Moors, when he saw a lone shape approaching in the distance. Quickly he splashed some vodka about his face and staggered onto the roadway. As he ’d hoped, the Moor hurried his steps and approached.

  “Where are you going there, señor?” The Moor spoke in Arabic mixed with Spanish.

  “Just trying to find my way back to my automobile. I think I parked it down this way.” Walt pointed a shaky hand toward the tunnel.

  “I believe not, señor. I just came that way, and there isn’t an automobile anywhere on this road. Tell me where you are staying, and I’ll escort you home.”

  Walt mumbled something, and he felt the Moor slip the bottle from his hand. “Here, let me help you with that. You do not wish this fine liquor to go to waste.”

  As Walt continued on, his head lowered, he heard the man taking long drinks from the bottle. Walt’s steps straightened as the Moor’s became erratic.

  The man moaned and placed a hand on his forehead, pausing in the center of the empty road. “I suddenly do not feel so well, señor.”

  “Here, let me help you. I see a tree over here you can lean upon—”

  The words weren’t completely out of Walt ’s mouth before the man staggered and crumpled to the ground. He was amazed that such a large man went down so easy—he ’d hardly added a pinch of the sleeping drug to the bottle.

  Using all his strength, Walt dragged the man off the road, behind the tree, and to the vehicle he had waiting. Then he drove back to the small room he had rented and managed to half-walk, half-carry the man inside before the Moor fully awoke.

  The man’s eyes widened as Walt shined a light into his face, and he tugged on his cuffed hands. “What is this? Where am I?”

  “You are about to get the opportunity of your life, my friend,” Walt said with a smile. He nodded to the handcuffs. “I mean you no harm, really. I just need you to answer a few questions, and you’ll be on your way with more loot in your pocket than you could get in five months on the front lines.”

  The Moor’s eyes widened, the whites of his eyes seeming to glow in comparison to his dark face.

  “Do you agree?” Walt asked, pulling the key to the handcuffs out of his pocket and dangling it before the man.

  He nodded with a jerk of his head.

  “Good.” Walt circled around to the back of the man and released his wrists. Then he handed him another bottle. “Go ahead; it’s good wine. And not drugged.”

  The man took a long drink.

  Walt settled down in a seat across from him. “I need to know about the tunnel—everything you know.”

  The man shrugged. “That is no problem, but it isn’t much. I have only been here four days.”

  Walt stood and lit a cigarette. “You may know more than you think. . . . Tell me how you get in.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  José had lost track of how many days they had traveled through the mountains—two, maybe three? All he knew was that each day he could see his father’s strength diminishing. They had to find a place to stay for more than a few days. And soon.

  He glanced back to see Petra, walking and leading his father’s horse. She told José that she enjoyed stretching her legs, but he believed she liked his father and wanted to be close to the old man.

  They were chatting about wildflowers when suddenly Petra’s cry pierced the air. “José, come quick!”

  Somehow she had managed to jump into the saddle behind his father and was holding him erect. “He just slumped in his seat. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

  Pepito dismounted and joined José as they hurried back and pulled the old man from the saddle. Petra jumped down, dropping to the ground and cupping Juan’s head in her lap.

  Pepito reached for the water skin and mumbled under his breath. “His water doesn’t have a drop gone. What a fool. He is tired of stopping to relieve himself, so what does he do? He doesn’t drink . . . despite the hot sun.”

  “Will he be all right?” Petra’s eyes were wide with worry.

  José took the water bottle from Pepito and lifted it to his father’s lips, not knowing what else to do. “Sí, he will be all right. It’s just sunstroke, but we will need to rest for a while.”

  Juan reflexively swallowed the water poured over his lips, and began to stir. José reached up and felt his father’s face. Indeed it was hot, his cheeks flushed.

  “Look, we can rest over here in the shade.” Petra took the reins of the horses and led them to the shade. Then she pulled her own blanket from her saddle pack and laid it out on the ground, smoothing it.

  José and Pepito took Juan by the arms and carefully dragged him to the blanket.

  “What happened? Where am I?” Juan’s eyes fluttered open.

  Petra leaned over him, offering another drink from the water skin. She laughed, and José could tell it was a laugh of relief.

  “Don’t worry. Your body decided to take a siesta, and the sun offered to help you sleep better.” She took his wrinkled hand in her small one and lifted it to her lips. “But do not worry. Your son will care for you, and I will help.”

  She smiled again and cocked her head, turning to José and meeting his gaze. Her eyes were large and brown . . . and he forced himself to look away.

  José saw a love there that overwhelmed him. And he ’d seen it more than once as they rode side by side. She trusted him. She believed in him. And, he feared, she loved him.

  José twisted the wedding band on his finger. He wished it were Ramona by his side . . . Ramona looking at him with such adoration in her gaze.

  Ritter smiled as he eyed the last of the tracings. In two days he would depart for home on the same ocean liner that carried him here. But not only was he taking home plans that would enormously assist the Luftwaffe ’s work, he had also stolen the keys to a woman’s heart.

  Monica had a hard time hiding her sad eyes as she stood at the docks, bidding Ritter farewell. “Must you leave already? I’m sure if you stayed a few days my father could dig up a few more tidbits of information on the American Army Air Corps that could be of use to you.”

  “Ja, I’m sure he could, but I have work waiting for me. I enjoyed my duties for the Fatherland, but a man who sleeps during harvest has no fuel for the winter.”

  “Who needs fuel when I could keep you warm?” Monica placed a soft kiss on Ritter’s lips, and his mind flashed again to Isanna. He had catered to Monica, but he refused to offer her a piece of his heart.

  She patted his hand on the top of his cane and tilted her head to the side. “Of course, if you insist on leaving, I just might have to book my own trip to Germany. Unless you’ll be away on business?�
��

  Ritter’s mind darted to Spain, and he wondered how the other pilots fared. Though he enjoyed the new work his country called him to, he missed soaring above the clouds. A part of him wished he could return to Spain, while the other part feared the very thing.

  “Actually, that may be the case. I might travel to Spain in the near future.”

  “Spain? Aren’t they in the midst of war?” Monica brushed aside the blonde locks that the gentle ocean breeze blew in her face. “Why in the world would you want to travel there?” She could not hide the hint of interest in her eyes.

  “Because during war people get desperate, and in times of desperation, a wise businessman can give people what they desire most, lining his pockets in the meantime.”

  Monica laughed. “I like the way you think, and I’m sure my father would like it, too. Who knows, maybe we both will visit you, showing up when you least expect it.”

  Walt studied himself in the mirror one more time, checking to see if the dark makeup covered every part of him that showed. It was risky to say the least, but if what the Moor said was true about the night shift, he should have no trouble getting into the tunnel. Like the Moor’s, his eyes now seemed to shine from his face. Walt pulled a cap down over his hair, tucking it all inside and hoping security didn’t look closely at his features, which looked nothing like those of his African friend. The Moor said that even if the moon was high in the sky, the road was dim, the entrance was dim, and even the tunnel was dim. He believed in the low light that Walt could pull off the deception. It was amazing how cooperative the man had been, when promised such a fine reward for his help.

  Walt joined a group of other tunnel workers leaving the town, and followed a few steps behind them. His heart pounded as they approached the guarded gates, and his trembling fingers slipped the identity card out of his baggy trousers. Watching the others before him, Walt followed suit. As soon as one of the Moors approached the worker at the gate, he handed the card to the official. The official studied it, then called the name to his assistant. Without looking up, the assistant found the name and called out his confirmation.

  Walt did the same, and the man read the name without even glancing at Walt’s face. He let out a low breath as the card was returned to him. He then shuffled through the gates and joined the other men, who, he ’d been assured, were all strangers and would pay no attention to Walt.

  He was assigned to a small work party with six others and a Spanish foreman. No one talked much, and Walt used the opportunity to scan the tunnel as they walked. Trucks drove back and forth carrying out loads of dirt and entering with all types of construction materials. The walls of the tunnel were still rough, but he was amazed by the enormity of the project and what they had already accomplished, especially under these circumstances. If they kept at it, he had no doubt they would make their way from Spain to Morocco in no time.

  As he walked, Walt noted a tunnel that swept to the side. The wall was painted with a warning of explosives. And at the end, no more than a hundred yards down, was a large door big enough for trucks to drive through. A smaller side door also allowed entrance to the area . . . just as Sophie had described. Just as she ’d sketched from her memory of the photographs.

  Walt worked alongside the other Moors loading rock and debris into buckets, thankful that they spoke little. The tunnel was cold and dimly lit, which helped him greatly. It would be obvious to any of these men, especially in daylight or under a strong lightbulb, that he wasn’t one of them.

  Their Spanish supervisor moved among them quietly, yet his eyes were on their every move. He wore a pistol at his side, and his hand was on it at all times.

  The supervisor watched their progress for a minute, then moved among other small groups of workers farther down the line. Though he supervised a half-dozen groups, Walt was out of his sight for no more than thirty seconds at a time.

  Walt ’s hands steadily moved bucketfuls of debris left over from the explosion of rock, yet his mind raced. His first question was how to get out of the supervisor’s view long enough to check out the side tunnel and door.

  Before coming into the deep cave, Walt had hoped that he ’d only have to get into the tunnels once. Now he doubted that would be the case. Unless . . .

  He scanned the few trucks that rumbled past toward the end of the line. Then he glanced to the truck parked nearest to them, where they loaded their buckets of debris. An explosion sounded from down the tunnel. Walt assumed the same trucks were hauling both explosives and debris, which meant there could be a chance that some explosives could be found inside the cab.

  As he worked, he moved closer and closer to the truck, expanding the space between himself and the other workers. When the supervisor moved his direction again, he eyed Walt curiously, but said nothing.

  The next time the supervisor got out of Walt’s view, Walt made a dash for the door. He knew without a doubt the next thirty seconds would make or break his plan, so he didn’t even look back to see if his movement caught the attention of the other workers.

  With five steps he was at the door of the truck. He swung it open and glanced at the seats, then looked under them. He grinned as he noticed sticks of dynamite stacked underneath. He grabbed a couple, then took a Zippo lighter from his pocket. The voices of the other workers rose around him, but he ignored them and lit the explosive. Then, with a sure hand, he threw it across the tunnel to a wide area where none of the Moors worked.

  Before the dynamite hit the ground, Walt grabbed another stick and sprinted toward the side tunnel. He ’d taken no more than twenty steps when an explosion sounded behind him. He turned just in time to see part of the rock wall crumble. The cries of surprised and fearful men filled his ears, and soon they ran in every direction. He darted past a few other supervisors who were more concerned about the unexplained commotion than the lone figure running down the tunnel. Within a minute, he was at the side tunnel. Walt turned and started down it, noticing it was less well lit than he ’d previously thought.

  He pulled the second stick from his pants pocket, highly doubting the side door would be open. He ran to it and checked. Sure enough, it was locked.

  Running backward twenty steps, he lit a second fuse and chucked the stick of dynamite toward the door. It hit against the metal, then clunked to the ground. Walt turned and covered his ears, waiting for the explosion, but then the scrape of the door opening caught his attention. He turned just in time to see the door open to reveal Michael standing there, looking down at the stick of dynamite with an expression of wild surprise.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Walt watched in horror as the explosive crushed the side wall and crumpled the small door. He didn’t want to think what it had done to the human body caught in the midst of its power.

  Cries in Arabic filled his ears as waves of frightened men filled the tunnel behind him, running toward the entrance.

  Walt darted to where the door hung on its frame and pushed it open. His gaze met the surprised eyes of Michael, lying on the ground.

  “I know you,” Michael said, barely above a whisper. “Your disguise doesn’t fool me. You were the one working with Sophie . . . . ” Michael moaned, and Walt glanced down and saw a chunk of metal the size of a playing card protruding from Michael’s left thigh. Other than a layer of dirt covering him, the rest of him appeared untouched. The door must have absorbed the majority of the blow.

  Without a response, Walt moved past him toward the two trucks parked within. He hurried to one and lifted the canvas. Stacks of white ammunition boxes filled the back. One crate sat partially open. Lifting the lid the rest of the way, he saw it was indeed filled with gold coins—antique coins—and his heart pounded in his chest.

  Suddenly, he heard the sound of a pistol being cocked behind him. Walt turned just in time to spot Sophie. Before he could open his mouth, she pulled the trigger, and the gun fired. The sound of a bullet whizzed by, hitting the bumper of the truck just beyond his leg.

&nb
sp; “Sophie, what are you doing?” he shouted. “Give me that gun.” He snatched it from her.

  “Walt?” She looked at him and took a step closer. “I thought you were a Moor.”

  “That was the point. How do you think I got in? What are you doing here?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s not that I had a choice. I’m a pawn. But I haven’t been a silent one. I told Michael that he was crazy to expect all the gold to be here.”

  “And were you right?” Walt asked, almost afraid to know the answer.

  Sophie nodded. “There were two trucks of stolen gold. Now one whole truck is empty.” She pointed to the truck before them. “This is all that’s left.”

  Walt made sure the gold was secured in back and ran to the cab. “Sophie, get in the cab,” he called.

  Without hesitation she obeyed.

  “Take me with you,” Michael called. He had taken off his shirt and wrapped it around his leg.

  Walt ignored him and swung the truck door open.

  “You need me!” Michael yelled. “You’ll never get out of here alive without me.”

  Walt heard the jingle of truck keys, and he turned.

  “Sure, you can take the gold, but what about the entrance? Do you think they will let you drive out? Especially with that dark makeup? Do you think you’ll fool anyone?”

  “And just how can you help?” Walt climbed from the truck and approached him.

  “I come and go from this place at will. They won’t stop me.” Michael pushed against the wall and stood. “You need me,” he said again. “If you drive me out of here, I’ll help you protect the treasure.”